


Knife In The Water

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s09e11 First Born, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Gen, Season/Series 09, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day the child comes to him, the bees are buzzing with nervous excitement. </p><p>He has watched the child for years, on and off. Watched it wander, watched it go astray. There are many stories to hear, about this child, and the ones who are with it. Many of them fall. Some die sinners, some die saints. That's how the stories say at least. He knows different. He has lived it. There aren't monsters, and there aren't men. There is temptation, there is sin, and there is love. He wished he'd known that then. What had not felt like a choice had been one after all.</p><p>This child isn't him of course, he knows that. Sometimes doesn't know why he bothers at all. And there are times when he does not care, when he does not look. There are so many more noble creatures to tend to. They understand so much better what peace is, what true devotion means. They are never mad, and they never take more than they need. They help him too, without even knowing it. Or maybe they do know. They have seen where his story has been a lie, a twist he held onto almost for too long, and yet they offer him their wisdom. Not many would call this blessing, yet he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife In The Water

**Author's Note:**

> For my dearest friends - pirrofarfalla, androbeaurepaire, sleepsintheimpala, lost-shoe, memberoftheangelgarrison and savingsammyhuntingdestiel

 

 

_**knife in the water** _

 

_when I hold this seashell to_

_your ear_

_do you hear me_

_laughing?_

 

 

 

 

 

On the day the child comes to him, the bees are buzzing with nervous excitement.

 

He has watched the child for years, on and off. Watched it wander, watched it go astray. There are many stories to hear, about this child, and the ones who are with it. Many of them fall. Some die sinners, some die saints. That's how the stories say at least. He knows different. He has lived it. There aren't monsters, and there aren't men. There is temptation, there is sin, and there is love. He wished he'd known that then. What had not felt like a choice had been one after all.

 

This child isn't him of course, he knows that. Sometimes doesn't know why he bothers at all. And there are times when he does not care, when he does not look. There are so many more noble creatures to tend to. They understand so much better what peace is, what true devotion means. They are never mad, and they never take more than they need. They help him too, without even knowing it. Or maybe they do know. They have seen where his story has been a lie, a twist he held onto almost for too long, and yet they offer him their wisdom. Not many would call this blessing, yet he does.

 

Through the years, he listens to the rumors, and the curses. And then the child comes to his house, of all places. The bees fly up and around them, agitated and with a noise like sand caught in a maelstrom.

>

 

The child has green eyes, sad and hard. The child is dead-set on the road it feels it has to follow. He thinks it even knows what's waiting on the end of it, yet it does not falter. The child has been through much already. It is admirably brave. And very, very lonely. But there's another hunger in its eyes, and he recognizes that one too. It has been long since he has met a being with such a depth of feeling inside of them. And the child desperately longs to not feel any of it anymore.

 

Instead, there is a beast of a killing instinct in its hands, in the twist of its mouth. And he can't help but feel connected. The child is asking to hear the song of songs that he has been denying himself for centuries now. It demands the literal knife in the water, his captor and his freedom that he has thrown into the sea.

 

The bees are angry and scared. Their wings beat at the dust, and the air becomes tense with electricity, the sharp edge of a summer storm. 'You are better than all of us', and it is silent, and entirely in his head, but he hears it in their noises all the same. It's been so long.

 

The child hears none of it. Maybe it doesn't hear the choices either. Those are sad stories, he thinks while the child clings to his arm and gasps in pain, such sad stories. They all end the same.

 

>

 

He leaves the house behind, and he leaves the bees behind.

 

He wanders far, because it's been so long. But mostly he makes wide circles around where the child is, circles like rings on the water when a stone has fallen into it. He is curious. He wants to see if the child will do good. Will take down the monster he perhaps should have slain a long time ago. Pursued he is often, and after a while, he lets them get close on purpose. So close, he can hear their ragged stinking breathing, their weakness, their laughter.

 

He used to rip them apart quickly, to just get rid of them. But now he savors each moment. The shock on their faces when he pushes his arm effortlessly through their chests, like they're nothing but sea-salt waves crashing uselessly against him. After, the earth is stained. He stares at it in disgust. They are poison, and there are so many of them. Not all of them even are demons, though they might as well be. Where is the difference. Really, there is none.

 

He has lost his former home, but now he has the clearing air. And with each day, he feels clearer for it himself.

 

>

 

He gets another knife. This one doesn't know the water and the waves, and it wouldn't kill a demon. But it kills humans, and so it fulfills its purpose all the same. He wonders about the child, while he cuts them down. Feels regret, or worry, maybe. But its fate was done and decided long ago. His whole poisoned issue, and the child had it in itself even before it appeared at his door. Not its fault. Just a sad story, but one that he will tell until the end.

 

He wonders about the child, but he doesn't have to wonder long. An angel, of all things, begins to follow his tracks. It puzzles him, at first, but it's not like he doesn't know about this one. It's not like he hasn't heard about this one. There's something else beneath those stories though, something that feels like familiar and aching and buried.

 

The child is not well. He had anticipated that. There was a lot of potential, but a lot of feeling there as well. It changes nothing. He has time. He tells the angel, and its demeanor changes instantly. It draws a weapon, but it doesn't charge. He considers killing it anyway. Considers the way its heart would explode and its eyes light up like a cold and dying star. The way doing this would feel and taste and sing for him. The air is so silent.

 

But he remembers the one in the water. He sees now, the road that leads him back to it.

 

>

 

Again, the child comes to him. It looks much different now. There is fear in its eyes. But it is still as brave, still as courageous. What a pitiful story. He really liked this one. He thinks he even had hope for this one. He is clear now though, there's no more buzzing of his mind. He sees it all, and it's all so easy, so bright. These stories, they might as well be etched in stone. His road, it led him through the sea, and yet he could so clearly tell each and every step he took.

 

He sees it all so clear. He is doing the child a mercy, really.

 

And the child –

 

It rips through his words, and through the air. The child makes it _stop_.

 

He is kneeling now, and for the first time in a long time, there is pain again. There is feeling again. The child has the knife and the one, the one from the water. The one that will be the end of all and every one of them, because it was the first.

 

The child asks him, and it pleads with him. The child has green eyes, and they are sad. Hunger replaced by tears. Such an old story. And so his answer remains the same. He bows his head with it, and the child limps closer, its breathing ragged and wet and filling the silence.

 

It comes to a stop behind him, water and salt on its cheeks and the one raised high in the air. He knows, he can hear the song and buzz of it. The laughter that the child is resisting to hear. He smiles with his head bowed, still and silent. Maybe the child understands now what peace is, what true devotion means. It's not going mad, and it does no longer take more than it needs. The child helps him too, without even knowing it. Or maybe it does know. It has seen where his story has been a lie, a twist he held onto almost for too long, and yet it offers him mercy. Not many would call this blessing, yet he does.

 

 


End file.
